


Are You Happy Now?

by Kamie007



Series: Fluffy BBC Sherlock Oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Compassionate Sherlock, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Eventual Johnlock, Fluff and Angst, Hope, M/M, No Mary Morstan, No Smut, Post-Reichenbach, Sally is almost nice for once, brief mentions of violence, lots of fear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamie007/pseuds/Kamie007
Summary: It's just a normal day at the office for our favorite DI, but what happens when he watches the mid-day news and finds that tragedy has raised her ugly head?Through the dark veil of tragedy and loss, can Sherlock, of all people, provide the light of hope they need to be able to continue on with their lives?





	Are You Happy Now?

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hate me! Just read to the end and be patient!!! And DON'T GIVE UP HOPE!!!!!!!

"Hey, Detective Inspector, take a look at this." Sally Donovan motioned for Greg to turn his attention to the screen of the television they had mounted on the wall at the Yard as she turned up the volume. The video playing on the screen hit him in the stomach and made him want to vomit. His breath started coming in shorter and shorter gasps until the words he feared crossed from the television to his sensitive ears: "Government official, Mycroft Holmes, was pronounced dead en route to the Saint Bartholomew's Hospital at 11:00 a.m. Our sources say that the bullet was aimed for the ambassador, but the warning came in time for his security detail to pull him out of harm's way. So far, no arrests have been made..." after that, Greg lost control of all senses as he stumbled toward the solitude of his office. Many concerned officers tried to stop him and ask him questions, but he never heard any of them, he just shook his head and tried not to let the tears fall. When he finally was able to shut the door of his office, he turned and locked the door, not wanting anyone near him. Then, he lost all composure. The first thing to fall were the tears. As the tears turned into racking sobs, something inside him snapped, and before he realized what he was doing, he'd already thrown his empty coffee mug against the wall, feeling a sort of release at hearing the satisfying _crash_ of shattering porcelain. He then reached for the cup that held his pens and pencils, throwing it at the same spot the mug had hit mere seconds ago. He then spotted something that could be thrown multiple times, a small rubber band ball that he had been working on building for weeks. He took it in his hand and chucked it at the wall beside the door and watched as it rolled back toward his feet. He then picked it back up and threw it again, feeling a slight release of the tension, not caring who heard or what they thought. His mind was shutting down, overwhelmed by grief. He threw the ball a few more times, the throws getting weaker and weaker until he wasn't even able to bend down and retrieve the ball from the floor. He then leaned his back against the wall and slid down, his face in his hands, as his shoulders shook violently with his sobs. He got out his phone, tempted to call _him_ , just to see if it was really true. If _he_ was truly gone. If his boyfriend was actually dead. Then he realized how silly that would be, and decided to look at pictures of them instead. He knew they wouldn't make him feel better, but he couldn't stand the idea that the only picture he could conjure of the beautiful man he had the honor of calling his boyfriend was of his final moments, hearing the gunshot ring out, watching as his eyes went wide with shock, and seeing his body drop to the concrete, supposedly dead in minutes.  
The first picture Greg found of the two of them was from several weeks ago when they had gone to the park for a relaxing walk, enjoying the rare time of sunshine while it had lasted. The picture showed Greg grinning into the camera while Mycroft placed a kiss on his cheek, his arms encircling Greg's waist. They had gotten a stranger to take it for them. Usually, that picture made him laugh, but at that moment, all it did was remind him that he would never feel Mycroft's arms around his waist protectively, never have those lips pressed up against his skin so sweetly. Mycroft, his My, was dead. And there was nothing Greg could do about it.  
Greg looked at several more of their pictures, all of them reminding him of something else he would never again experience. After a while, he gave up and curled up on his side and cried himself into a fitful sleep there on the floor of his office, thankful the door was locked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours had passed since John and Sherlock had seen the news of Mycroft's death on the telly. The two men were so shocked that neither could think of a word to say to the other. They both just sat and listened to the reporters, like Greg had, except Sherlock didn't break out into a fit of rage and grief, but instead chose to keep his outrage from escaping. Sherlock finally broke the two-hour long silence.  
"We should go to Greg, see if he's been involved with finding the shooter. If not, we should convince him to look into it." Sherlock's voice was thicker than usual and strangely monotone. John recognized the signs of grief, and knowing that getting out of the flat would do Sherlock a world of good, nodded and rose to get his coat before following Sherlock out of the door, down the stairs, and into a cab.  
When they arrived at the yard, they immediately went up the stairs to find Greg's office. Before they could get to it, however, they were intercepted by an unusually rattled Sally Donovan. John knew something was wrong when she didn't sneer down her nose at Sherlock and call him a freak, but instead seemed almost relieved to see them.  
"Donovan, you skipped the insults. What's happened?" John asked, cutting straight to the point.  
"Greg locked himself inside his office. I don't know why, but all we could hear from outside his door was things being thrown about and what I could have sworn was sobbing for about an hour before all went silent. The silence fell an hour ago. We've all been trying to decide who should go in there to check on him, but none of us feel like getting stuff thrown at our heads. But, I figure you two are close enough to him that you might stand a chance of surviving Greg's wrath. We all agree on one thing, though: whatever happened to cause this wasn't good."  
John and Sherlock looked genuinely concerned and went straight to the door, knocking rather loudly on the door, accompanied by shouts of "Greg, are you alright? Greg, are you in there? Open the door, please Greg! Greg! Open the door!"  
After close to two minutes of knocking and shouting through the door, it finally opened to reveal a haggard looking Lestrade, eyes red and puffy, the left side of his face imprinted with the pattern of the carpet, age and stress lines prominent on his tanned face. The lights in his office were turned off, and he was squinting at the bright fluorescent light of the hallway.  
"God, Greg, you look like hell!" John exclaimed a little too loudly for Greg's comfort.  
"Thanks, mate. It's worse than it looks." Greg tried for his usual flippant tone, but failed miserably, unable to hide the truth in the statement. Greg swayed on his feet after a wave of dizziness swept over him. He reached out and leaned against the door frame until he had recovered.  
"Greg, what's wrong? What happened?" John asked while reaching out a steadying arm to the still swaying man, his doctor instincts taking over.  
"Onset of a migraine?" John guessed, and Greg nodded slightly, moving his head as little as possible. John and Sherlock shared a glance of concern before John spoke again.  
"Greg, we're gonna take you home, okay?"  
Greg just nodded again as tears he thought he'd already tired-out welled up once again. His head ached, but not as badly as his heart.

  
Once Sherlock and John had gotten Greg into the taxi, and John gave the driver Greg's address, John again tried to get the silver headed man to talk about what had caused his fit of destruction.  
"Greg, what caused this? What happened?" Greg stayed silent.  
Sherlock gave up on keeping his deductions to himself, almost hoping that admitting the truth might help Greg feel better.  
"He's had an argument with a lover. My guess is they broke up. Greg's afraid he'll never see this person again. He also blames himself, but he's not sure of that, so he probably couldn't actually have helped the situation, even if he could have tried." For a reason beyond Sherlock's reach, Greg flinched like he had been slapped when Sherlock had said the word "my". Greg unclenched his jaw to try and give something in reply.  
"Close, Sherlock. Close."  
Before Sherlock could go anywhere with that admission, the taxi had arrived in front of Greg's building. John and Sherlock half carried, half drug the weary detective between them up the stairs to the second floor and to the door of Greg's small flat. Greg fished for his keys in his pocket, but he was shaking so badly John had to take the key from him while Sherlock held him upright so John could open the door.  
They walked him into his bedroom, and John sent Sherlock to make some tea for the three of them while he tended to Greg. John first took off Greg's shoes, then his coat, then his jacket, piling all of his stuff on a chair beside the bed. He then helped Greg swing his legs onto the bed, placing his head down on the pillows. John then reached for the quilt that had been folded and laid at the end of the bed, draping it over Greg carefully. John didn't try to engage in conversation with the hurting man, knowing it would only make things worse. A few minutes later, Sherlock walked into the room with two mugs of steaming tea. He handed both to John, who sat one on the nightstand for himself and carefully put the other to the trembling lips of the distressed detective. After making Greg drink half of the mug to chase down the migraine medicine, John let the man fall into a shallow sleep. John then reached for his own mug, took a sip, then spoke softly to Sherlock.  
"What on Earth do you think could cause this much pain to such a strong man? I know what you said in the cab, but this is beyond a lover's quarrel. And he said you were close...you don't think his lover could be dead, do you?" Just as the words left John's mouth, Greg started twitching in his sleep, then started mumbling something repeatedly. John couldn't translate the muttering into words, so he turned to Sherlock for answers.  
"He's saying 'My, my, don't leave me my.'" Sherlock said with very little emotion. John could see wheels turning in his head. Sherlock then closed his eyes, using all of his thoughts to decode the cryptic message of Greg's nightmare. After thirty seconds, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stumbled back with the weight of his discovery.  
"God, if there was ever a time for me to be wrong, please let it be now. Please don't let me be right about this one. Of all things, not this." Sherlock spoke softly to himself as he rushed over to the discarded jacket laying on the chair, going through the pockets before he found what he was looking for: a small black velvety box. Sherlock opened the box to see two silver rings, one with the engraving _GL,_ the other with the engraving _MH._ Those rings sealed Sherlock's fate of always being right.  
"Sherlock, what are doing? And what did you mean, you 'hope you're not right?' You always want to be right!" John asked Sherlock, struggling to keep his voice down.  
"Not this time. Not like this. Remember a few weeks ago when Mycroft was in the flat and he and I had the deduction game with that hat, and he claimed he wasn't lonely? He wasn't lying. John, I just found a ring box with two men's engagement rings in Greg's pocket. One of them has Greg's own initials, but the other's initials are _MH_."  
John's eyes went wide with the revelation. _Sherlock was right._ He thought. _I really didn't want either of us to be right this time._  
"Greg and Mycroft were together. To the extent that Greg was planning to propose marriage! Sherlock, this is awful! He could have been your brother-in-law! He should have been!" John was shell shocked by the pure injustice of the whole ordeal. He threw another glance at Greg's prone body on top of the bed before walking heavily out of the room to go sit on the couch. Sherlock followed quickly on his heels, his eyes avoiding the man who could and should have become his brother-in-law, the only man who could make his brother happy.  
_Just like Mycroft. Finally finds himself a goldfish he can be happy with and he gets himself killed._ Sherlock thought to himself, a little piece of his thought sending out a distress signal, but he was too tired to fully address it. Instead, he joined John on the couch, laying his head back and going into his mind palace for some restorative rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sir, we have the men in custody. All we need is the final piece of evidence that connects these men to your shooter. We should be wrapped up in the next two hours. As soon as we're done, you will be able to return home." The commissioner of police informed the uncomfortable man sitting before him, chest bare as he holds ice packs to his bruised ribs. The man nods to him in dismissal.  
"Those Kevlar vests sure are good at keeping you alive, but they haven't quite figured out how to minimize the bruising, yet. But think on the bright side, sir: you get to live to be the British Government another day." The commissioner throws over his shoulder as he walks through the door, closing it behind him, leaving the sore man alone with his thoughts once again. He'd been locked in his office, presumed dead by the media and likely everyone else, for three hours already, ever since the shooting occurred at 11:00 that morning. He hadn't planned for this to happen, but he had known that it was going to potentially be dangerous to present himself to the public in such an exposed way, so he had thankfully made the decision to wear a bulletproof vest that morning. But the press didn't know that. Couldn't know that. Because if the press assumed him dead, the people who were targeting him would assume him dead, meaning they would be celebrating, and not worrying about being careful, which means it would be the perfect time for them to be caught.  
_Greg will also assume me dead._  
The depressing thought infiltrated his celebratory mood at thinking of the downfall of a terror cell with such force it caused his bruised ribs to ache with renewed fervor.  
The police force could not capture these men soon enough. Mycroft Holmes wanted to go home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour after John and Sherlock had deposited him in his bed, two hours after falling asleep on his office floor, three hours after seeing the news broadcast that shattered his world, and four hours since the love of his life was shot and killed, Greg woke up in a bed he hadn't slept in for months. His eyes flickered open, the roaring pain all but gone, leaving only a dull ache behind his eyes from the volume of tears he'd shed that day. He heard the telly and assumed that John and Sherlock were still there, watching over him. Knowing them, they'd figured out his little 'secret' and were waiting to taunt him for it.  
He walked out of his bedroom and shuffled stiffly into the living room, where he found John vacantly staring at the screen and Sherlock with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. They both turned to him suddenly when they noticed his presence in the doorway. Sherlock looked him in the eyes, and Greg knew that he had been right. They knew. Then Sherlock spoke and shocked Greg and John both with the sincerity in his voice.  
"Greg, I'm so sorry. I found the rings. I wi-I really wish that you could have been my brother-in-law. It's not fair. You should be my brother-in-law. But just like my brother, the moment he finds true happiness, he goes and des- wait a minute, no! That's not Mycroft at all! That's me! Mycroft would never allow himself to die right after finding something so good and lasting as love! Oh, this is good. This is great! Greg, don't give up hope yet: I think Mycroft is still alive! And before you can say anything, just listen to my reasons! Will you at least listen to them?" Sherlock ranted, jumping out of his seat at his revelation. The red flag from before had finally caught his full and undivided attention. Greg and John looked at him skeptically before nodding slowly, curious about what he had to say.  
"Good. Reason number one: they showed the video. They never show the video of tragedies. And why? Because gore is usually unacceptable for day-time television. So why was that footage allowed? There was no gore. No blood. Which leads me to reason number two: Mycroft is too careful than to expose himself to the public without some sort of protection, like a bulletproof vest. No blood plus Mycroft's personality equals he was wearing a vest. Which also equals not dead! Moving to reason number three, if you even need any more, I haven't received a frantic phone call from my parents, which means they don't know. If Mycroft were dead, they would have been contacted immediately as next of kin. Under the same reason, I would have been contacted as soon as he arrived at the morgue. But again, I have yet to receive any such calls. So, therefore, reason must state that Mycroft Holmes is not dead!" Sherlock finished dramatically, ending in shouting tones loud enough to wake the dead. At first, Greg refused to allow himself to believe that what Sherlock said was true, but the solid reasoning made him consider the option.  
"But what do I do if he is? If I allow myself to hope, and he's dead, what then?"  
Greg could see the flash of crushing doubt in Sherlock's eyes before it was replaced by a desperate hope.  
"I'm not wrong. I can't be. You have to keep hope, Greg. I have to be right." Sherlock said with a determination he didn't quite feel. Greg just scoffed.  
"Ya know what? I'm going back to bed. Wake me if he shows up, alright?" He said, close to mocking.  
Before he could leave the room, though, John stopped him.  
"Wait, Greg. Before you go to bed, I want you to think about something. If Mycroft were to walk through that door right this second, you need to know how you're going to react. You need to examine your current feelings, what you felt when you found out, how you reacted then, and what he's been going through since the shooting. When calculating your feelings, don't forget to add in the fact that he still got shot. I'm sure you've been shot in the vest before. It's not fun. But seriously, it helps if you have an idea of how you're going to react."  
Greg nodded his head as he realized John was right. He then started the trudge back to his bedroom but froze in the entrance hall as his ears recognized the sound of a key in the lock. His mind went numb, but he could feel tingles of hope running through his body, and a heavy knot settled in his stomach as time seemed to stand still. Finally, he heard the lock disengage, the key removed from the lock, and saw the door knob twist. It was the moment of truth; was _he_ here. The door quietly opened just enough for the tall man with dark ginger hair that Greg had been dreaming of to slip in. He hadn't seen Greg. He'd kept his back turned and his eyes downcast as he closed the door silently and re-engaged the lock. He looked so small, so tired, so vulnerable, _so handsome._ Then, the smallness and vulnerability started fading away as Mycroft put on his work mask. A mask he only uses with Greg when something really bad is happening. The mask scared Greg, and he, in that moment, decided how he was going to greet Mycroft.  
While Mycroft kept his back turned, trying to collect himself while still unaware of Greg's presence, Greg tiptoed closer to Mycroft, almost convincing himself that he was just a mirage created by his hope. Greg reached out and laid his hand on Mycroft's back while he spoke softly.  
"No. Don't you dare. We agreed, no masks. No matter how bad, please no masks, My. Why are you trying to use a mask?" Mycroft went tense, almost as if he was expecting something harder and harsher than what Greg was giving him. Mycroft slowly turned, still not letting himself relax. Greg saw the fear in his eyes and his heart broke.  
"My. I'm not angry. I'm just so thankful you're alive. Sherlock figured it out, just a minute or so ago, actually. I didn't want to let myself hope, but here you are, standing right in front of me. I love you more than anything, and I'm so happy to see you. You are so brave, and beautiful, and absolutely amazing, and I'm so glad you came home to me."  
As Greg continued in a low and gentle tone, Mycroft finally allowed himself to relax into Greg's touch. At the end of his speech, Greg brought Mycroft's head down towards his and kissed him slowly, relishing the feel of his lover's lips, the lips he thought he'd never feel against his again. Mycroft finally realized that Greg meant what he had said, that they were going to be okay, and he let himself relax fully in the arms of the man he loved most. The sweet moment was soon cut short by the voice of Sherlock cutting through their peace.  
"Admit it, brother dear." Mycroft pulled away from Greg reluctantly and faced his younger brother.  
"Only if you admit it with me," Mycroft said tryingly.  
"On the count of three, then?" Sherlock replied, and after a nod from Mycroft, he motioned to John to count for them, even though he had no idea what would be said by the brothers.  
"One, two, three." John counted, and when he reached the word three, Mycroft and Sherlock spoke in tandem.  
"I was wrong. Sentiment is not a disadvantage found only in the losing side. There, happy now?"  
John and Greg laughed. It felt good to Greg, being able to laugh. Mycroft pulled Greg closer to him, while Sherlock looked down at the floor under his feet, for some reason suddenly embarrassed by something, or afraid of something. Mycroft knew what he was expecting, and he couldn't help but give it to him.  
"You know, Sherlock, I've got mine, when are you going to admit to yours?"  
A moment of silence ensued.  
"Admit to your what? What is he talking about?" John asked Sherlock, unable to stand the silence.  
"Nothing. Don't worry about it, John."  
"No, Sherlock, obviously it's not nothing. If your brother is making a big deal of it, it's not 'nothing.' Now tell me."  
"Love, John. I was talking about love. I have Greg, but Sherlock refuses to tell his love about his feelings. He's too scared of rejection." Mycroft answered, since Sherlock declined.  
John's eyes went wide with shock.  
"That's ridiculous! Sherlock, you should just tell them! If they don't accept your love, they'd be a fool! And I mean that!"  
"I don't think you know what you're saying, John." Sherlock said quietly, his face and voice unreadable.  
"I think I do. Anyways, who is it?" Sherlock thought he detected a slight tremor in John's voice, but he, like Greg, didn't want to let himself hope. So he went for cynicism, hoping to push John into making another mistake.  
"Why do you want to know?"  
"Why wouldn't I?"  
"Why do you want to know? Give me a good reason and I'll tell you."  
"Fine. Have you thought that you're introducing someone new into our lives? Because you have to remember that bringing them into Baker Street also brings them into my life."  
"That was weak, John, and obviously a lie. You'll have to do better than that. Why do you want to know who I am supposedly in love with?"  
"I don't know! Because I'm your-your friend!"  
"Trouble coming up with an answer? How about hearing the question again: why do you want to know?"  
"BECAUSE I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU AND THINKING OF YOU WITH SOMEONE ELSE MAKES ME SICK." John finally snapped and yelled the deeply hidden answer Sherlock had been longing to hear for a long time. Sherlock smiled a rare genuine smile before taking a step closer to John, who still had his hands in fists, wound up like a jack-in-the-box. John lost his steel as Sherlock continued his forward advance, ending just inches from John.  
"You really mean that?" Sherlock whispered.  
John just nodded, Sherlock's nearness rendering him unable to speak. Sherlock grinned.  
"John, a few months ago, Mycroft and I made an agreement. The moment he admitted to my face that sentiment is not a disadvantage, I would tell the person I love about my feelings. So, to honor my agreement with my brother, I'm going to do something I've never done: share my feelings. John Watson, I'm not bringing a new person into Baker Street. I wouldn't dream of it. The truth is, I'm in love with you. Will you have me as your boyfriend?"  
By the end of Sherlock's speech, there were no dry eyes in the room.  
"Yes, you clot!" John said before he connected their lips in their first kiss. Greg clapped, and Mycroft smiled smugly.  
"Let's get back to Baker Street, what do you say, John?"  
"I think that's a great idea, Sherlock. Goodnight Greg, Mycroft. By the way, very glad you're not dead!" They all chuckled as John and Sherlock left the small flat, hands entwined.

Greg and Mycroft sighed as they watched the new couple walk down the hall together, hardly daring to let go. They could both remember the time when that was them. That night, they felt the same way, though, especially Greg. He felt like if he let go, even for a second, Mycroft would disappear. He decided it had to be then; he had to do it quickly before Mycroft faded away.  
"Hey, My, why don't you come on back to my room. I want to show you something." Greg took Mycroft's hand, pulling him to the bedroom without actually waiting for an answer. Mycroft was slightly confused, but he went along with it, happy to be with Greg. When they got into the room, Greg had him sit on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed. He did as instructed, not wanting to ruin the surprise. He heard some rustling, then he heard Greg clear his throat before speaking again.  
"Mycroft, I wasn't planning on doing this tonight, but losing you today, although it was temporary, hurt like hell. It also made me think: what would I do if I lost you? It scared me to death because I didn't have an answer. Me without you has become obsolete. Completely and utterly pointless. I decided when you came back through that door from death to life, I didn't want to ever experience a day without you again. Open your eyes, please." Mycroft again did as he was told, but this time he had a feeling he knew what he was going to see, and he was right. Greg was kneeling on the floor with a small box covered in soft black velvet in his hands. It was still closed, but when Greg saw that his eyes were open, he slowly raised the lid of the box as he spoke the age-old words that moved Mycroft to tears.  
"Mycroft Holmes, will you marry me?"  
"Yes. Greg, I love you so much. You make me so happy. Thank you, my love." Mycroft whispered hoarsely as he pulled Greg off of the floor and kissed him deeply, making sure to keep the ring box steady. After they broke apart, Greg put Mycroft's ring on his finger, then let Mycroft put his ring on. They both admired their new rings before they kissed again.  
Even though it was still early in the evening, Greg and Mycroft collapsed into the bed together and fell into a deep and restful sleep, finally free of nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> See, I told you it'll all be ok in the end!! Thanks for sticking with this and finishing! Please feel free to comment!


End file.
